


A witch's tale

by UnproblematicMe



Series: After the End that never came (TV based series) [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure, Demons, Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-08 13:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20836448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnproblematicMe/pseuds/UnproblematicMe
Summary: Being a witch comes with benefits and downsides. Being susceptible to visions and being able to communicate with ghosts is both. Anathema has settled into the comfort that by now she can block visions and attempts at communication when it gets too much. So when she suddenly receives a vision too powerful to get rid of, she is both scared and curious. What kind of ghost is strong enough to accomplish that?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, after ruining the format completely during editing, I deleted the story and just uploaded it again. Sorry for the confusion, but chapter 2 is here, too, so there is some new content as well.  
A fair warning first: I LOVE Aziraphale and Crowley, as individuals and as a pairing. But if you're looking for a story about them, please check out my other stories. This is a Good Omens fic, so of course they will be mentioned, but this one won't be about them.  
This will be a story about my favorite witch. I really like Anathema and want to explore her character a bit. Also I will establish some headcanons about her powers and how they work.  
I am not sure about the rating yet. It might change, but for now Teen and up seems alright.

The old wood creaked under her feet, cobwebs tangled in her raven hair and the cold damp air made her skin crawl. The girl made careful small steps forward. Outside it was sunny and warm, but the cellar she was now passing through had no windows and electricity had been shut off a week ago. The weak light of her old flashlight barely illuminated one foot straight ahead properly, bathed two steps in an eerie halflight before being swallowed by the darkness of the narrow corridor.

Somewhere in this darkness faint scratching noises sounded. The girl swallowed. A few days ago she would not have dreamed to break into an abandoned house to search its darkest rooms for something she did not even know what it was. When she first had felt that tingling, that itch in the back of her mind, it had been scary but not as scary as the thought of roaming the basement of a recently deceased woman. But the weird sensation had intensified and within only two days become unbearable. So she had given in and had followed the images in her mind. She could, and maybe should, have told her mother, but she did not need another lecture about controlling her powers better and how she should train her passive and defensive techniques more.[1]

She recognized the cellar’s dirty grey stone walls and the old wooden floor from her vision. And sure enough her flashlight’s stream soon revealed the narrow door at the corridor’s end. Through it’s key hole dim light fell but by far not enough to provide any illumination on this side. With every step she took the scratching became louder as well as more frequent and her heart beat faster, but also the annoying feeling in her mind was soothed like she was scratching an itch by following the noise. When she slowed down or only so much as thought about turning around and leaving, it grew worse again.

And so she went on until she stood in front of the door. Her light fell on the door knob. She gulped. Her hands hesitantly moved to open the door, the scratching behind it now almost frantic. Holding her breath she grabbed the handle and turned it very slowly until she heard the mechanism click open. Her shaking fingers pulled at the door which moved stiffly, causing the old hinges to creak in protest. When the door gradually moved, the scratching ceased all of a sudden. Slowly, very slowly, she opened the door. At first a crack, letting some dim light stream into the corridor. She peered into the room. Nothing to see.

A scratching again. She held her breath. A little shuffling noise. Silence.

She took a big gulp of air. She grabbed the knob firmly. A scratching noise. She yanked the door open.

“Meow.”

Stumbling back into the dark corridor with wide eyes and a startled gasp, the girl held her hands to her chest while she regained her composure. Then she stared at the thin black cat sitting behind the door tilting its head curiously.

“Really now?” The girl exclaimed. “The source of the scary noise in the dark cellar is a black cat?”

“Meow,” repeated the cat.[2]

After putting away her now unnecessary flashlight, she let her eyes wander through the room behind the door. There was a small window letting some sunlight in, but it was closed. The room was shabby but unlike the corridor not dirty and did not look like it had been unused for a long time. The shelves with the bottled water and the canned food showed that it was a larder and the old lady probably had been in here regularly. Maybe the cat got locked in accidentally and her owner died before she could use the storage room again and let the poor animal out.

“Poor thing!” she smiled empathetically, now completely placated. She held her arms out and the cat willingly approached her and let her pick it up.[3]

Soothingly the young witch stroked the cat’s fur and held it close to her chest. Smiling at the animal, she turned to leave.

“Let’s get you out of here. First you will need some wAHHHHHH….!” She took her eyes of the cat to see where she was going. But as soon as she lifted her gaze she looked into a pair of huge grey eyes. With a screech she stumbled back, pressing the cat protectively against her upper body, while staring in horror at the figure before her.

The expressionless eyes lay in the dark sockets of a pale almost white face with hollow cheeks and a thin mouth pressed into a tight line. The woman blocking the exit wore an old fashioned but elegant dark dress and had her light grey hair drawn back in chignon.

Her lifeless gaze lingered on the girl’s face for a moment but then eyed her up and down. The thin lips curled into a too wide smile and revealed a line of well-groomed but visibly aged teeth. It contorted the worn face weirdly and when she opened her mouth further to speak, the girl held her breath.

A rasping sound followed escaped the woman’s throat before she spoke: “This is Sir Fuzz.”

The young witch blinked. She had never seen a ghost before and had expected either a curse from a vengeful spirit or some cryptic advice from a well-meaning soul. But that seemed like neither.

“S…so…sorry?” she squeaked.

The woman lifted her hand and pointed at the cat that unimpressed lay in the girl's arms.

“Sir Fuzz!”

“Oh. OH! Sir Fuzz!” The young witch understood. „Of course! Wait! Is that why I am here?”

“I needed someone to find him. Poor thing.” The ghost said wistfully. “I closed the door on him to teach him a lesson because he always sneaks in here. I swear, I planned on getting him out after fifteen minutes, but when I was in the bathroom, everything went black all of a sudden. The next thing I know is I am standing in the living room, my Steven with his Mary sitting on the couch, crying their eyes out. Poor dears. I asked them what’s wrong, but they didn’t even answer. At first I thought that something upset them so much, they could not even talk about it. I told them that I’d be right back, I just had to free Sir Fuzz. But when I tried to open the basement door…”

“…you could not touch it,” the girl finished sympathetically.

The woman gave a sad smile and a nod.

“I could just walk through it,” she said with a shrug. “But that did not help me get Sir Fuzz out. But you found him. Will you take good care of him?”

The girl looked at the cat that witnessed the weird exchange between a pre-teen witch and a dead old lady astonishingly relaxed. A fond smile built on her face.

“Yes, of course! I promise.”

“Thank you, my dear!” The lady seemed relieved. “You know, he was with me in my darkest hours. A true friend and a loyal companion. He deserves a good home.”

“You are very welcome. He is a sweetheart.”

“Since you already promised, I can tell you that he is not,” the woman sighed. “He is an old bastard. But very loveable.”

“Oh, great!” the witch laughed lightly, but then she cast the woman a serious look and asked: “What about you?”

“Oh, I have to go!” the ghost said. “Something is pulling me since I… well, died. And there is this annoying voice in my head. Sometimes even two of them, telling me to get on with it.”

“Voices?”

“Yes! A man, I think. Very rude. Said he does not care about stupid cats! I could hear it clearly,” she said scandalized. “And another voice, not sure if man or woman since it was rather faint.”

“What did they say?” the girl asked curiously.

“I’m not sure, deary. If I didn’t know better I’d say, they whined about ‘Paperwork’,” the ghost answered doubtfully. “But that makes no sense, right?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I think I will give in now,” the dead woman smiled. “The voices are rather rude, but the pull feels… nice. Like someone who loves you and takes your arm to show you something beautiful. You know what I mean?”

“No, not really,” the girl gave back with a shrug.

“Well, don’t worry, deary.” The ghost said softly. “I am sure one day you will…”

And she faded away.

*

Sir Fuzz! The young woman smiled at the memory. Yes, her first ghost encounter had been scary, but at the end of the day she had made her first friend then. That friend being a moody black cat that indeed was a bastard but who always seemed to sense when she was sad and in need of comfort. It’s not that the ‘weird Device girl’ had a lot of human friends to lean on. Sir Fuzz had disappeared shortly after her eighteenth birthday. He had probably died somewhere in the nearby woods, already being a pretty old cat when the young witch had found him, probably ancient in cat standards 7 years later. But a part of her still hoped and believed he was just fine. That maybe he knew that she was strong enough to face the world alone now and found someone else who was lonely to annoy and love.

“Anathema?” A tender hand on her upper arm ripped her out of her thoughts.

“What?” Anathema Device, world saving witch, turned around and faced Newton Pulsifier, another one of world’s saviors and its worst IT specialist.[4]

“The bookshop over there!” he smiled shyly. “I just thought you’d like to have a look.”

“Oh,” she said. The shop looked very cozy and inviting, not like the modern stores you usually come across. It was nice, even if it had nothing on Aziraphale’s shop, but being run by a literal angel probably was an unfair advantage.

“Sorry!” Newton said bashfully. “Were you just aura reading or meditating or… I don’t know… witching around? Did I interrupt?”

“No, no!” she answered quickly and smiled. “I just remembered the very first time, I had visions like that.”

“Did that… weird feeling you spoke of, get worse?” he asked concerned.

“No, don’t worry. Actually it’s way better since we arrived here. We must be on the right track,” Anathema assured him. “And you’re right. The shop does look cute. But I am tired. Can we go to the hotel, please?”

“Sure!” Newt nodded. “It’s not far. I suggest we leave Dick Turpin here. Who knows how the parking situation is at the hotel.”

“Okay!” Smiling Anathema took Newt’s arm and let him take the lead. After all he had googled the strange symbol she had seen, booked the hotel that used it as their business sign and studied the map of the town it was in. Her visions had been so strong she had been barely able to focus on anything outside her head.

Sure, spirits who had important messages could be quite pushy, but usually she could control her reaction better. As most witches that trained their skills her powers grew with time and age and she could lock an annoying spirit out by now – if she so wished. But this one was quite powerful and very insistent, if not to say ‘brash’.[5]

She had to admit that Newt had been very supportive and sweet.

_Not unlike Sir Fuzz._ She grinned at the thought. But unlike that grumpy old cat, he could use a phone and drive to the apothecary to buy aspirin.

With a giggle, she leant her head on his shoulder as they walked to the hotel. She could basically feel his confused look and the raised brow, but he did not inquire. He had accepted that sometimes there were things going on in her head that were hard to explain and he did not push her.

Anathema smiled. Yes, Newt had seen that “weird Device girl” and instead of running, making fun or trying to change her, had stayed. Not _despite_ but _because_ of who she was and who she could be.

*

“Anathema!”

The witch startled awake. Did she really hear that? Or was that in her dream. Had she dreamt? If so, she could not remember. She looked around.

The hotel room was like before. Tasteful wooden furniture along the pristine white walls, not so tasteful curtains with a pink and lavender floral design framing the small window and a coat racket in the small corner between the exit door and the door to the bathroom. Newt was snoring lightly beside her in the huge bed in the room’s center and seemed to have heard nothing.

With a sigh she fell back into her mattress and closer her eyes.

“Anathema!”

Immediately she sat up again. That was not a dream. She thought about waking Newt but changed her mind when she remembered how much he probably needed sleep right now. Biting her lip she carefully sneaked out of the room into the darkened corridor. Only the lights pointing to the emergency exit were on and painted the hallway in a greenish glow. Her fingers found the light switch at the wall, but pressing it had no effect.

“Of course,” she breathed out sarcastically. “This is so typ…”

“Anathema!”

She whirled around right in time to see a shadowy figure descend the stairs. She rushed to the staircase but saw nobody. Swallowing the lump in her throat she went down, the stone steps cold against her bare feet. Arriving at the hotel’s ground floor, she let her eyes wander. The exit door was closed, the reception abandoned. This was no town with excessive nightlife so usually guests stayed in after ten and whoever arrived later had to use the bell. So here, too everything was dark except for the emergency sign.

A rattling noise made Anathema turn her face down the hallway. She knew that this way lay kitchen and bar. Both should be closed by now. Stepping closer, she heard the sound again, this time sure, it came from the bar. Carefully she entered and was surprised that they obviously were still open after all. This was especially weird since there were no guests. The barmaid, a grey haired woman of average height and weight had her back turned towards Anathema and probably had not noticed her yet. She hummed a melody and helped herself with the whiskey. The young witch hesitated. She was awake and obviously supposed to be here. There was no reason not to have a drink and inquire a local about the symbol she had seen in her vision and that was so prominent in the hotel’s sign. Not wanting to be responsible for broken glass, she waited until the woman had put the bottle down. Then she cleared her throat. She expected the woman to startle around, but she turned her body leisurely towards Anathema.

When she looked into the middle aged face with the mischievous glint in the grey-blue eyes and the laugh lines along the likeable features, Anathema froze. She had never seen that woman and yet she knew her. Would recognize among thousands.

“Drink?” the woman asked, producing the whiskey in her hand.

But Anathema just stared for what felt like forever before finally breathing out: “Agnes?”

[1] Like all pre-teens she despised an admonishment most when it was true.

[2] As a cat it was of course very observant and aware of several silly horror tropes but unfortunately lacked the physical requirements to discuss them with the human. And it had learned that saying “Meow” usually sufficed.

[3] The cat actually was not in the mood for this. It was hungry after days in a storage room with lots of food it could not reach. But it was a very compassionate cat. It knew that humans now and then needed some affection, especially when in distress.

[4] But after preventing Armageddon by destroying a huge computer, he had gotten better with those machines. Sometimes he thought they feared him now since he bested one of their strongest kin.

[5] Which was especially disappointing since until now she had found British ghosts to be way more polite and decent than American ones. They usually were also reasonable enough to wait with their requests if she had cookies baking or a soup on the oven. Some even agreed on coming back another day, when she had a migraine or was menstruating. All in all very considerate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think. Kudos and comments make me happy. Be honest but constructive with criticism.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really tried for “Agnes speech”, but it drove me mad. Let’s imagine that in her time as a ghost she picked up modern language, okay?

Agnes Nutter was not exactly an impressive appearance. In her time she had looked younger than she was due to her progressive knowledge about the human body and on how to keep it healthy. These days she looked about as old as one would expect from a woman her age. She was attractive but not a classic beauty that the bards sing about. Not that Agnes was a woman who wanted a bard to sing about her. In fact, she was mostly annoyed by bards.

She did not need to rely on beauty. Anathema knew this because Agnes was not only the family’s oldest known ancestor, she was also the most significant member of the family. The Devices knew everything about Agnes Nutter.

Not only was she a prophetess. She was smart. She was empathetic. She was a great cook. She was very good at solving riddles. She was very eloquent. She was a talented witch. But right now the most considerable of her traits that Anathema knew about Agnes was that she was dead. Standing for itself that particular knowledge was not very interesting, but combined with the fact that she was standing in front of Anathema, it was something to keep in mind.

She was not the first dead person Anathema had talked to but the first to successfully hold a glass of whiskey – or any material object.

Anathema had a lot of questions, but she was unable to put any of them into words. With widened eyes she stared her foremother while her lips opened and closed.

“Anathema?” Agnes asked with her brows raised.

“Huh?”

“Do you want a whiskey as well, I asked?”

“You… you should not be able to hold the bottle or glass to begin with!” Anathema blurted out. “Why can you do it? Why are you here? HOW are you here? Did you call me? What do you want? Why…?”

“Breathe, child!” Agnes chuckled. “I understand that you have a lot of questions, but let us answer them bit by bit. Alright?”

Nodding Anathema took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in her throat and coughed lightly.

“Well,” she said, pretending to have calmed down. “Other ghosts I met could not interact with material objects. How can you?”

“I am a witch!” Agnes answered like it would be enough to explain, but a doubtful look from Anathema made her sigh and elaborate: “My powers allow me to give more… substance to my spirit form, makes things easier, but it does drain me, I can tell you.”

She took a sip of Whiskey and made a content noise. Then she gave Anathema an encouraging look and gestured for her to go on.

“Right,” Anathema nodded. “If you never went to Heaven - or Hell -, why did you not come sooner? I could have used some help understanding your prophecies.”

“It all worked out well, did it not?” The old witch grinned, but again Anathema’s facial expression told her that she wanted an explanation. And so she continued: “The guardians of the veil are quite insistent you stay after you entered.”

“The veil?”

“Oh yes, people wait there for the decision whether it goes up or down,” Agnes nodded.

“Agnes, you died centuries ago!” The younger witch exclaimed.

“I am aware, child,” Agnes laughed. “I was there, you know?”

“Yes, right, of course,” Anathema stuttered. “But, what I mean is, why does it take so long?”

“As it seems for some souls it is harder to decide whether they are good or evil.”

“But you. You spend your life, helping people. You healed the sick, you helped women in need… how is any of that doubtful?”

“Well, obviously causing an explosion that kills 9 of 10 adults of a village that want to burn you at the stake does not count as self-defense,” Agnes answered, in an almost pouty tone but added with a resignedly sigh: “Probably because I knew that it would do nothing to save my life. That arrogant big guy in the fancy suit used the word ‘petty’, I think. Pfff, they _killed _me for being what I am, but _I _am petty for wanting them to regret that.”

“But they did take your good deeds into account?”

“Oh, yes. There were several angels speaking on my behalf, but suit guy seemed to be of higher rank,” Agnes answered, refilling her glass. “So they were waiting for notice ‘from upstairs’. And every soul I spoke to about that told me that nobody ever moved on when ‘notice from upstairs’ was needed.”

“That… is concerning,” Anathema said. But Agnes just shrugged.

“Is it?” The prophetess asked, sipping her whiskey again. “The waiting area is quite nice. Nicer than Hell at least, I would guess.”

“Yes, maybe,” The younger witch gave back. “But doesn’t that mean that God does not answer? That He does not talk to his angels?”

“It seems _She_ doesn’t,” Agnes nodded and chuckled: “Well, I won’t blame Her for not talking to suit guy. He is a terrible bore.”

“Ehm, okay, let’s drop the ‘God is unaccounted for’ thing for now,” Anathema said, not really wanting to think about it. “But how did you leave the ‘waiting area’ then? If they are so vigilant?”

“It appears the failure of a 6000 year old war strategy caused enough chaos for a smart witch to escape them,” Agnes answered smugly before she downed the rest of her whiskey.

“Will they come for you?”

“They can try,” the old witch said with a smile. “Earth is _my_ territory, not theirs. Most of the high ranked angels are so out of touch with humanity and know so little of this planet, they could not find a lame rat in a barrel.”

“Ooookay…,” Anathema said doubtfully but returned to her interrogation. “I guess the question whether you called me here, is unnecessary, so: Why are you here?”

Agnes hummed approvingly and nodded.

“Yes, that is really important,” she said. “I need your help. You must find someone.”

“Who?”

“The missing woman is a descendant of a fellow witch, a friend I had during my lifetime,” Agnes explained. “She should have sought you out by now. But she didn’t, did she?”

“Nobody contacted me,” Anathema confirmed. “But you are here! In the flesh! Why not look for her yourself.”

“I found her home. I felt her presence inside,” Agnes answered, grabbing the whiskey bottle again, this time not bothering with a glass. “But I could not enter the ground. Something keeps me away. It cannot be protection against witches, because...”

“Then she herself would not be in there,” Anathema finished.

“Exactly. So it must be something to keep ghosts out.”

“Which means that your friend’s descendant must be alive.”

“Yes.”

“But, Agnes,” Anathema said carefully. “Maybe she just is an introvert that does not go out often. And protecting a house against ghosts is not that weird.”

“No!” Agnes insisted. “Something is wrong. It is a family of earth witches. She would at least go to the woods now and then. And they always were welcoming towards wandering spirits.”

“Agnes, that was centuries ago!” The young witch argued. “Who knows if she is still practicing witchcraft?”

“Why would she stop?” Agnes asked, eyebrows raised.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s ridiculous, child,” Agnes lectured, waving with the bottle. “We are talking about an old and proud line of witches. Why would one of theirs not practice witchcraft?”

“Who knows? Maybe it was not her decision. Maybe somebody else broke the tradition years ago,” Anathema blurted out. “Maybe she was born without the gift. Maybe she had some bad experiences. Maybe she was sick of being a professional descendant.”

Agnes let the bottle sink, swallowed the whiskey audible, tilted her head and fixated her descendent with an inscrutable expression.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I guess, I cannot deny the possibility. Even though it seems unlikely to me. Things are different these days.”

Anathema did not answer. The young witch cast her gaze downwards, blushing at her own outburst.

“Nevertheless,” Agnes spoke up after a while. “It cannot harm to assure ourselves of her well-being. If she is not a witch, at least not a practicing one, any spell laid upon her home, is suspicious, don’t you think?”

Furrowing her brow, Anathema nodded.

“And if she is one, a protection against spirits would be suspicious, too, with regard to what you said about her family traditions,” the young witch admitted. After a short pause she sighed: “Alright. I will check on the woman. Worst thing to happen is she things I am a weirdo. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“_Weirdo,_” Agnes repeated slowly and winked. “I like the word. Sounds like someone special.”

*

The next morning – faintly she had heard the churchbells strike 10 – Anathema found herself in front of an old mansion. It was outside the town, but it had only been a 15 minutes’ walk and the young witch could still see the hotel’s roof from the hill the house was built on.

She had told Newt a tiny fib about going to the woods to be close to nature and strengthen her powers. He did not need to know that she talked to a dead witch who sent her on a mystery quest of finding a missing woman. Newt was most understanding when it came to witchcraft in general, but Agnes in specific was a sore spot. Sure, she had helped them save the world, but Newt was not fond of the idea of his whole life having been foreseen and possibly been puppeteered by Agnes. Since he never spelled it out, she could only guess that the thought made him feel helpless and manipulated.

Taking a deep breath, Anathema opened the iron gate that lead to the mansion’s front garden. Trees, bushes and flowers grew wild here, she noticed when she let her eyes roam while walking up to the house. The only cultured section was an herb garden with several aromatic and medical plants she planned on growing herself at Jasemine Cottage. Curiously she left the path to the main entrance to cast a glance at the herbs and discovered a side entrance next to it that she guessed led to the kitchen.

Keeping this in mind she returned to the path and went to the main door. She rang the bell and waited. The house was not huge but big enough that the owner might need a while to get the door if they happened to be in the attic or the basement. When she was about to leave, she felt something. It was a wave of fear. And sure enough the door opened soon after that.

“Hello?” A pale woman with long red hair and tiny freckles along her cheeks opened the door a bit and peered through the small gap. Her green eyes did not meet Anathema’s and she was tapping her slender fingers nervously on the door.

“Ah! Hello! I am Anathema… Device,” Anathema introduced herself.

A flicker of recognition rushed along the other woman’s features and for a second she looked at Anathema, but she did not say anything.

“Anyway,” Anathema continued quietly when the woman remained silent. “I was told you have something to… tell me or show me, maybe?”

“No!” the woman said a little too fast. “You must confuse me with someone else.”

“Oh? So you’re not Prudence Brook?” Anathema just made up a name but simultaneously ran along her forehead with three fingers. To most people it would seem like a random gesture, but to a witch it was the signal that she was talking to one of her kind.

“Ehm, no, sorry,” the woman answered. “I am Emily Ravens.”

While she spoke she entwined her fingers, signaling Anathema that she was in distress. Alright, they understood each other. Maybe she could get some informations and help Emily.

“What? Really?” _Is there someone with you in the house?_ “I guess I have the wrong address then?”

“Possibly.” _Yes, three of them._ “The town is way older than any address system. It’s confusing.”

“How long have you lived here?” _Human?_ “Do you happen to know Prudence Brook?”

“I am afraid not.” _Most likely not._

“Too bad.” _Can you just run?_

“Yes, sorry!” _No._

“Alright, thanks anyway. I’ll leave you alone then.” _I’ll be back. Distract them if you can._

“Yes, good luck!” _I’ll try._

“Goodbye!”

Anathema turned around and left. She passed the iron gate and pretended to go back to town. But as soon as she was sure to not be visible from any window in the house, she snuck around the premises. Her habit to observe every location carefully paid off. Protected by bushes and trees she climbed the wall surrounding the grounds at the back. Confident that the greenery would hide her she neared the house again and squatted down. Crawling along the outer wall she made her way to the herb garden.

Peering through a nearby window, she found her assumptions confirmed as she saw a cozy little kitchen. There was a small pot on the old but well-preserved oven and on the long table near the window someone had been cutting vegetables. But a closer look showed that the food was not fresh. Not yet rotting, but it had been lying there for quite a while now.

Anathema sneaked towards the kitchen door. Unsurprisingly it was locked. Sighing the young witch made her decision. Since she had never learned to pick a lock, magic was her last resort. It was risky because she would not be aware of her surroundings as long as she focused on the lock, but since it did not seem overly complicated, she would be fine. At least she hoped so.

She put her hand on the lock, closed her eyes and focused. After she whispered the words, her mind was drawn into the structure of the lock. She rushed into the cylinder, took in the tumblers and pushed. She was not very practiced in that spell, but as she had hoped the mechanism was not very complicated and soon yielded to her magic. With a gasp she found herself kneeling in front of the side entrance again and a friendly ‘click’ spoke of her success.

With a triumphant smile she slipped into the kitchen and carefully closed the door behind her again. Passing the room as fast as silence allowed, she grabbed a knife from the table. When she peered through the key hole of the door on the other side, she looked into a dim lighted corridor. After a short moment of hesitation she took of her shoes. She would be faster and quieter on just her socks.

She saw and heard nobody but was shaking a little nonetheless when she opened the door and left the kitchen.

A little clueless she looked around. So far she saw no sigils or runes that could keep a ghost as powerful as Agnes out, but the house was big and there were lots of curtains, pictures and pieces of furniture were they could be hidden behind.

To the left the hall led towards the main door and the stairway. To the right it lead deeper into the house and she could not tell what she might find there. Just as she was considering using another spell to find Emily, she heard a faint cry from above. Biting her bottom lip, she rushed along the corridor until she reached the stairs. There she halted and eyes the stairs. Luckily a thick rug was adorning the stair well and sneaking up should be easy enough.

Arriving on the second floor, Anathema immediately heard a soft cry again. She turned to the left and spotted two doors on the hallways right side. After she sneaked closer, she heard the noise once more and was sure it came from the door further down the corridor. On instinct, she carefully opened the other one first, however, revealing a small library.

Delighted she discovered another door that led from here to the room the cries came from. Here she could peer through the key hole being less exposed than in the corridor.

Carefully she knelt down and peeked into the room on the other side. Emily was sat on a chair. Her long carrot red hair was in the grip of a hand. The owner of said hand was not in Anathema’s line of sight, but he pulled the fiery strains back brutally revealing several dark bruises on Emily’s neck that had been hidden by her locks when she had talked to the other witch before.

As Emily had signaled her two more men were present. One was staring out of the window, looking quite bored, the other leaned against the wall casually.

Anathema wrinkled her nose and furrowed her brows, thinking. She would need a good plan. Even with her magic she could not beat three adult men in an open fight. She needed a plan, magic traps, maybe a sleeping spell. But she remembered Emily doubting that the invaders were completely human. And whatever they were, she needed to know about their exact nature before fighting them.

Silently she stood again, positioning herself in front of the door. She had practiced to read auras through sturdy materials and had gotten pretty good at it. Admittedly this was the first time she did it under distress, but it was for a good cause.

She breathed in and breathed out and then she focused. Through the door she made out to auras of a very dark grey. The third was even darker. That could not be a good sign.

She focused on the darkest of the auras and tried to dive deeper. Maybe if she scratched on the surface of the man’s – or creature’s soul – she could see some of his skills, strengths and – most importantly – weaknesses. She gathered her powers and directed them at the man.

Suddenly she felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs and the room around her. What she felt was so dark and cold and furious and so full of hatred, that for a second she blacked out. Gasping she sank to her knees and started to tremble.

When she came to, she was staring at a pair of old beige boots. Shocked she looked up. A blond man in a worn out trenchcoat grinned and stared at her with pitchblack eyes.

“Will you look at this, boys?” he chuckled darkly. “Our witch collection is growing.”

Two different voices joined into the laughter from behind him while Anathema was hauled to her feet and dragged into the room behind the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think. Kudos and comments make me happy. Be honest but constructive with criticism.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the rating to Mature because of language and barely veiled threats of sexual violence in chapter 3. It does not really happen though.

Harsh, cold voices sounded through the mist that had spread inside her head. Anathema remembered being grabbed by a blond guy and dragged into the room. Two other men, one with brown hair and one bald, had put her on a chair and the blond had punched her.  
  
"Witches!" he had laughed. "Always amusing."  
  
Slowly Anathema came to her senses, but tried to stay quiet. As long as she did not attract attention, she could observe and gather information. So she let her head hang forward and looked at the men through the strands of her long black hair.  
  
Like Anathema, Emily was tied to a chair and seemed to be apathetic. The blond man, apparently the leader of the intruders, had grabbed her by the hair, held an ornate dagger to her neck, and stared at her face.  
  
"Hmmm, seems like Red Sonja here really knows nothing." Bored, he released her and her head sagged forward. She only gave a soft groan at that.  
  
"What's so important about an ordinary wooden chest, Lord Hastur?" asked the bald man.  
  
Anathema's eyes widened, but she could keep the sound of horror that threatened to escape at bay. Lord Hastur! Crowley's former ... colleague? Supervisor? Fellow? Anyway, definitely a demon. And he was here for a wooden chest? Subtly she turned her head a little and squinted in the direction of the desk by the window. Hastur was running his fingers over an actually very inconspicuous box made of dark wood.  
  
"We are supposed to get it. Order from way up... well, down, " the dark haired man replied. "We don’t need to know more."  
  
"That's right!" Hastur nodded. "Besides, we have not been able to open the thing with muscle power or magic yet. So it’s not that ‘ordinary’. The question is why the red-haired bitch has the thing but doesn’t know how to open it. "  
  
"What are we going to do with her?" asked the bald man.  
  
"Oh, I have some ideas!" the blond answered with menacing tone as he slid his dagger over Emily's shoulder bone. "I hate redheads!"  
  
Anathema bit her lip to hold herself back. But when Hastur's slow-moving blade stopped at one of the straps of Emily's top, she could no longer control herself.  
  
"Keep your hands off her, you creep!" she hissed and all three men[1] turned to her.  
  
"Oh, look!" Hastur said with a fake smile. "Sleeping Beauty is awake."  
  
"My name is Anathema!"  
  
"I don’t give a damn." He let go of Emily for the moment and approached Anathema.  
  
"You shouldn’t have come here, witch." He played with the dagger in his hand. "Your little friend here is of no use to me. She doesn’t know anything. Have tried the gentle and the hard way. We’ll now have a little fun with her and then let her live with the nice memories of our time together. You, on the other hand... "  
  
"Who says we can’t work on her, too, until she loses her mind, Hastur?" grinned one of the other demons.  
  
"Good point," Hastur admitted with a smirk. "But let's be honest. Eventually it gets boring, too, and that one’s not even a redh... "  
  
Casually, he patted Anathema's hair with his left hand while still gripping the dagger’s handle with his right. But as soon as he had touched the witch, he stopped and hesitated.  
  
"Wait!" he said after a while, focusing on Anathema with his black eyes. He started to grin. "I can feel it! Whatever is in this box has a connection to you! "  
  
"I don’t know what you're talking about, demon," Anathema replied as haughty as she could.  
  
"Oh, I think you know very well!" Hastur walked slowly towards her. "You know more than you admit, and - more importantly - more than I know. And I don’t like that at all. "  
  
He stood in front of her and raised his right hand. Anathema held her breath, bracing herself for a slap or a brutal grip on her throat. She was surprised to find that instead he was cupping her cheek almost tenderly. And he smiled. A real warm smile, not the fake smile of the moment from earlier, not a malicious grin and not a mocking smirk.  
  
"And that's why...," he continued. "You will tell me everything you know about it. No wait! You'll tell me everything you know at all. Just to be sure."  
  
"And why would I do that?" the witch hissed at him.  
  
Hastur's hand slid gently down her cheek and finally lovingly held her jaw.  
  
"Well, to make me happy, of course," he smiled, cut her bonds, laid his hands on her upper arms and helped her to her feet. "You want that, right? You want me, right? "  
  
He kicked the chair aside and put light pressure on Anathema's arms. She felt the blade of the dagger in his right hand on her left biceps. Gently but surely he crowded her against the wall.  
  
Anathema stared dumbfounded at the demon. Crowley and Aziraphale had told her about Hastur. Therefore, she knew that even by demon standards he was pretty mean, cruel, sadistic, a pyromaniac and one to hold a grudge. No one had said anything about delusional! But he could not really believe what he was saying.  
  
He was filthy and revolting. The body he had chosen was unwashed and he wore dirty clothes. He also smelled disgusting. Well, with some goodwill you might call the smell "earthy". Maybe a little bit "manly". And if you ignored the scary eyes, he was not unattractive. His facial features were pleasant to look at and he really had very strong arms. Besides, he had a nice voice and ... Wait! What?  
  
Confused, Anathema wondered what was going on. This guy? Attractive? Manly? Nice voice? What the hell was wrong with her?  
  
But then she felt it. A dark force that penetrated her mind, snaking through her thoughts like a worm. Anathema forced herself to concentrate. With difficulty she managed to build a magical defense, but it did no more than reaching a momentary stalemate. Though she had not yet fallen to the demon, she still felt his spell slinging around her mind like a tentacle.  
  
The demon pressed his body against hers as well as his magic fought against hers. He was too powerful. On the long run she would not stand a chance.  
  
Only one more spell. If only she could manage that one spell... if only...

*

  
  
Hastur grinned. This one resisted at least. The redhead had been almost boring. For her age, this Anathema was quite strong, but in the end stood no chance. After all, he was one of the most powerful demons and even an experienced witch could not have defeated him.[2] Such a young one even less so.  
She grew weaker. He felt her magical resistance fade away. Soon she would be his with body and soul and share all her secrets with him. He waited until he did not feel her defensive magic anymore. Then he smiled at her and fastened the dagger to his belt with a generous expression. He would not need it anymore to keep her under control.  
  
"See?” he whispered. "You want me, right? Be with me? Forever?"  
  
"Yes," she replied with a glazed look. "But ... is it possible?"  
  
"Of course, sweetheart," Hastur answered, feeling triumphant. "All you have to do is tell me what you know about this chest and how to open it."  
  
"Yes ... but is _it_ possible?" she asked.  
  
At first, Hastur only looked at her in confusion until her hands began to wander over his torso before moving slowly to the lower regions.  
  
"Oh!" he grinned. "Is_ that_ possible? Of course! But first…"  
  
"You're a demon," she interrupted wistfully. "How could we be together?"  
  
Hastur rolled his eyes. That was the reason he usually preferred violence and destructive magic to trickery and influencing spells. The "subtle approach" was often more complicated than the brutal one. If he punched person A and B on the nose, they were both bleeding. A demonic spell of desire worked different for everyone. Sometimes his victims just wanted to satisfy him, some wanted to give him presents, others to marry him. The little witch here apparently wanted to get laid by him as fast as possible. She could have that but business before pleasure.  
  
"Well, I am a demon, my pretty," he flattered. "But that is a human body. The body of a man. "  
  
"Oh," she breathed with a smile. " _Exactly_ like a man's?"  
  
"Exactly like a man’s!"  
  
"Good to know," she purred.

*

  
  
Only one more spell. If only she could manage that one spell... if only...  
  
Yes! Unnoticed by Hastur, who was busy breaking her resistance, she cast a veiling charm. Gently, it fell on Anathema's mind, hiding any magic that emanated from her. Had Hastur been paying better attention, he would have noticed that she even no longer felt like a witch, but the Lord of Hell was too focused on breaking her resistance. When he no longer felt it, his pride and his impatience bested any caution.  
  
"See? You want me, right? Be with me? Forever?"  
  
"Yes," Anathema tried to look enchanted. "But ... is it possible?"  
  
"Of course, sweetheart. You just have to tell me what you know about this box and how to open it, "the demon answered.  
  
"Yes ... but is _it_ possible?" she asked.  
  
She hid her disgust as she began caressing Hastur's body with her hands. Repulsed, she reminded herself that it had to appear like she had fallen for him hopelessly.  
  
"Oh!" His grin was really disgusting. "Is _that_ possible? Of course! But first…"  
  
"You're a demon," she cut in, trying for a sad voice. "How could we be together?"  
  
She noticed the annoyed look on the demon’s face, but pretended not to see it. He continued to play along as well.  
  
"Well, I am a demon, my pretty," he said. "But that is a human body. The body of a man. "  
  
"Oh." That went well, that was important information. To be sure, she added, "_Exactly _like a man's?"  
  
"Exactly like a man’s!"  
  
"Good to know," she purred. Then she grabbed the collar of his coat, lifted her knee and rammed it between his legs.  
  
When Hastur howled and writhed in pain, Anathema took a step back and gave him a right hook, which she had not thought herself capable of. The demon stumbled away from her and Anathema grabbed at his belt and stole his dagger.  
  
As if in a trance, she turned to meet the bald man who charged at her. With full force she rammed the blade into his stomach and he collapsed. He pulled the dagger down with him, but by the time Hastur's second minion approached, she had grabbed the wooden chest from the desk and slammed it against his skull. That bought her enough time.  
  
She threw the chest at Hastur's head now to prevent him from recovering too soon. Then she grabbed the weapon and as the brunette demon could think clearly again, the blade was already stuck in his chest.  
  
His assistants dissolved into black fog, but Hastur, though unable to fight due to various pains, was still alive, pressing out harsh curses and threats.  
  
Thinking quickly, Anathema cut Emily's bonds and dragged the apathetic redhead with her. They ran through the small library into the hallway. Emily was fortunately conscious, but did not really pay attention to her surroundings. Anathema was convinced that if she let her go, she would just stop or sink to the floor.  
  
And so Anathema pulled the other witch with her towards the stairs. She hurried downwards, Emily in tow. But when they were roughly in the middle of the stairs, an angry scream came from above. The scream seemed to echoe in the walls above her, accompanied by a smacking noise.  
  
Anathema fastened her steps, but it did not help. As they reached the base of the stairs, the cover of the ventilation shaft above the door began to wobble. With a crash it broke loose from his anchorage and crashed down under the pressure of thousands of maggots. The writhing white creatures themselves also fell to the ground, but melded together and formed a human shape. Soon Hastur, Lord of Hell, stood before the two women.  
  
Anathema wanted to run back, but Hastur was too fast. He grabbed the witch by the throat and jerked her away from the other woman. In the corner of her eye, Anathema saw Emily dropping on a step and cowering against the wall.  
  
"You should not have done that, witch!" hissed Hastur. "That could have been much more pleasant for both of us."  
  
A deafening noise drowned out the last syllables of his speech. The front door flew open and hit Hastur's back. With a cry, half anger, half surprise, Hastur stumbled sideward. His grip on Anathema's throat eased, but he quickly grabbed her arm as she tried to escape.  
  
Both turned to the door, Anathema worried, Hastur hateful. There was no one else in the doorway than Newton Pulsifier. He bounced up and down on his left foot, looking at his right one with a pained expression. When he saw that two pairs of eyes were gazing at him, he immediately took up a straight posture, adjusted his glasses with his left hand and presented a plant mister with his right. Anathema looked at him incredulously, but Newton seemed unperturbed.  
  
"Let her go and leave, demon!" he said with astonishing authority. "Otherwise I will dose you in holy water!"  
  
Hastur stared at the newcomer for a moment. Then he started laughing loud and sardonic.  
  
"Really?" he bellowed. "Did you go to idiot school with Crowley? I did not fall for it the first time. So I won’t fall for it the second time. "  
  
"Crowley said on the phone that he hopes you’ll say this," Newt replied unfazed. "He recommended the plant mister to me. Now let her go! "  
  
"And if I don’t?"  
  
"Um, I told you already," Newton answered in a lecturing voice. "Holy water."  
  
"You're bluffing, boy!" Hastur smirked.  
  
"If you say so." Newt shrugged and activated the mechanism of the plant mister.  
  
Anathema saw Hastur's eyes widen as the fine mist flew toward him. But the Lord of Hell reacted quickly. With a wave of his hand he disappeared, leaving the humans behind.  
  
Newton opened his mouth, but Anathema was faster.  
  
"Emily!" She rushed to the wounded witch.  
  
When Newt noticed the young woman as well, he just whispered, "Oh God!" and helped Anathema to take care of the redhead.

*

  
  
A little later, they had found Emily's bedroom, put her on her bed, and looked after her wounds. The external injuries were not so bad. For everything else, Emily would need time and probably the help of her coven. Anathema had called Emily's aunt, who had promised to leave immediately.  
  
The red-haired witch had not said much. Only that she actually had the century-old mission to contact Anathema to give her the chest. But on the day she had wanted to go to Tadfield, she had been attacked. Hastur and his henchmen had tortured her with violence and magic for two days. She had only been allowed to open the door as not to arise suspicion and to scare off curious friends or neighbors. Obviously, Hastur had wanted to avoid a whole coven coming to the rescue.  
  
Anathema had just finished removing the runes against ghosts and applying seals against demons in their stead. It was a little annoying that Hastur's henchmen had dissolved. ('Discorporated' Crowley and Aziraphale called the phenomenon). She would have liked to know why they had protected the house against ghosts. It also worried her that the boardroom of hell was after a chest that now evidently belonged to her.  
  
Deep in thought, she joined Newton.  
  
"Hey, how did you ..."  
  
"Oh no, lady!" he interrupted harshly. "Now I'm talking!"  
  
"O... okay..."  
  
"What were you thinking?" he snapped. "You tell me something about a walk in the forest and are gone for hours. Then I learn from a dead witch that you have started a quarrel with some demons!”  
  
"Wait, you spoke to...?" began Anathema.  
  
"I'm not finished!" Newt interrupted harshly. "You can’t drag me along as long you’re in the mood and then lie to me when you change your mind. That's not how it works!"  
  
With each word his voice had grown louder so that he finally was shouting at her. Anathema looked into his face, red with rage, and almost yelled back. But then she saw something else under the angry facade, something vulnerable and fragile.  
  
She stood in front of him, not provoking, not shrinking, just openly.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said honestly.  
  
He stared at her, his breathing hard and ragged. But then his shoulders slumped down and he pulled her into a tight hug.  
  
"Never do that again," he whispered into her hair.  
  
"Promise!" she replied.  
  
"Good," he said, releasing her. While he adjusted his glasses, he added sheepishly: "Sorry for yelling at you."  
  
"No, it’s fine!" she smiled. "I deserved that."  
  
"True, you did," he nodded with a grin.  
  
For a while they stood silently in the corridor in front of Emily's bedroom until they decided to sit in the kitchen.  
  
"Well," Anathema finally said. "You spoke to Agnes?"  
  
"Yes, well, not really. But she spoke to me," Newt replied. "I was looking for you all over the town and was in our room just for a moment to see whether you had left your cell phone behind - you had, by the way."  
He looked at her sternly at these words but then went on: "So I just have managed to unlock it, want to find out Aziraphale's number, turn around and there's Agnes Nutter in the mirror! She says you're ‘in the house on the hill where the demons are. The bloodline is crucial.' and disappears. So I call Aziraphale at the bookstore, but Crowley answers because Aziraphale helps out in the soup kitchen and Crowley is in charge the store at the moment. But Aziraphale doesn’t have a cell phone, well, he does, because Crowley bought him one, but he always forgets it, so Crowley cannot get him immediately ... "  
  
"Newt!" Anathema interrupted with a soft smile. "Short version?"  
  
"Uh, yes, of course!" he nodded. "Aziraphale was not available, but Crowley told me to get a plant mister and fill it with holy water in the church. I was supposed to go ahead, he and Aziraphale are coming as soon as possible. Oh, I should let them know that you’re not dead."  
  
Newton pulled out his cell phone.  
  
"Yes, you do that. I'll take a look at this chest," Anathema said. "I think I have an idea how to open it."  
  


[1] She knew now that they were not really "men," but it was less scary to call them that. Constantly having the word "demon" in mind could not be healthy.

[2] Hastur forgot his encounter with Morgan LeFaye so often that it bordered on repression. But to be fair, it _was_ embarrassing to explain to Hell’s quartermaster, why one returned without a body AND without trousers.


	4. Epilogue

With a queasy feeling Anathema entered the small study next to the library. Even though the bodies of the discorporated demons had vanished, the mess in the room still spoke of the fight that had occurred here and was still fresh in her memory.

The chest was still lying on the floor at exactly the spot it had landed after hitting Hastur’s head. Anathema could not help the small smile of satisfaction at the memory forming on her lips, while she picked up the wooden chest. She put it back on the table and pulled one of the chairs closer to sit comfortably and examined her new acquisition.

Simple but beautiful carvings adorned the lid. Fine lines covered the wood and only on second glance she noticed the tiny hole in the middle of the image. She smiled. That must be it.

“The bloodline is crucial,” Agnes had told Newt. Unlike her other hints this had nothing to do with Anathema being in danger of Hastur and his cronies and the only other problem currently left was the locked chest.

Anathema carefully removed her brooch and cleansed the needle with her hand sanitizer. Biting her lip she pierced her left hand’s index finger and let some blood drop into the indent on the lid. As soon as the red liquid landed in the hole, it started to glow. Slowly but steadily the orange light spread through the carvings until it filled the complete image. The lid snapped open.

Curiously Anathema looked at the contents of the chest. She found three envelopes and a parcel.

The envelopes were addressed to

“The witchfinder who found my granddaughter”

“The angel who chose humanity over Heaven”

“The demon who chose humanity over Hell”

The parcel had only written “Anathema” on it, plain and simple.

Anathema unwrapped it and soon held a book in her hands. The title said “The nice and accurate recipes of Agnes Nutter, witch”. Raising an eyebrow Anathema skimmed through it. At first sight it really was a recipe collection. The first half was for cooking and baking, the second contained medical formulas.

But then she saw an empty page between a juice against depression and an ointment against burns. Confused she wanted to examine the page but as soon as she touched it, two words appeared on the paper: “Turn around”.

Holding her breath, she lifted her head. She swallowed and slowly made a 180 degree turn. Gasping she took in the middle aged woman near the door.

“Hello, child!” the woman smiled.

“Agnes!” Anathema breathed out. “What is this about?”

“I am a prophetess, Anathema,” Agnes answered. “I knew that you would burn the new set of prophecies I sent to you.”

Anathema blushed.

“I… I am sorry! But you have to understand…,” she stuttered

“And I do,” Agnes said.

“Really?”

“Well, I had a vision of you burning the book a few days after I finished writing it. And I will admit that I was a little mad,” Agnes said. “But I think I understand. It is your life and the prophecies in my first book overshadowed it. I still think it was the right thing to do it as it was necessary to save the world, but to you as an individual it was not fair. I understand and respect your decisions to no longer accept this. You saved the world. You deserve control over your own life.”

“Thank you!” Anathema said but needed to know: “Then why did you decide to sneak in another version of your prophecies, disguised as a recipe book?”

“It is… a compromise,” Agnes explained with a smile. “I realize you want your freedom but please understand that your silly old ancestor wants to do her best to protect and help you.”

“I have to confess that, while my visions up unto the day of the apocalypse were pretty clear, those that showed me the world after that were often contradictory und foggy. For example the apocalypse itself. In my visions I saw it happen as well as I saw it being averted. Images about the days following showed a mostly intact world inhabited by humans as well as a ruined world full of fighting angels and demons. So the new sets of prophecies in hindsight probably would have confused you more than be of use.”

“Then why did you send them to me after all?” Anathema wondered.

“Mainly because I saw that I would,” Agnes laughed. “As I said: Up until the day of the apocalypse everything was clear. I really did not want to mess up a functioning timeline.”

Anathema furrowed her brows. In a way that made sense. Agnes had seen that her descendant would burn the second book after the apocalypse, still this book's journey was a part of the history before the apocalypse.

“Okay,” the younger witch said. “So, what is that compromise?”

“I sorted out all prophecies that contradicted others and hid the remaining in the recipe book,” Agnes explained. “I used a spell that made sure they will only show when needed. In addition I took out all those that are meant for others than you so you won’t have to deal with them.”

“What do you mean? When needed?” Anathema asked. “How will this be determined?”

“Oh, I would not know,” Agnes shrugged. “There is a very random factor to the spell. I used my own human magic but added something divine as well as something demonic. The result is almost…ehm…”

“Ineffable?” Anathema offered.

“Yes,” Agnes smiled.

Anathema looked back at the book where the mysterious page by now had disappeared having the burn ointment directly follow the anti-depressant.

“So, this book will not tell me what to do and where to be on a daily basis?” she asked. “It will only spill some wisdom in times of need?”

“Yes!” Agnes confirmed. “Is that alright?”

Anathema smiled and nodded.

“It is!” she said. “That’s a wonderful gift.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Agnes said relieved before speaking wistfully: “I have to go now. Being in this form is exhausting. I will return to the veil. Maybe they decided by now. Even though I don’t think so.”

“Goodbye, Agnes!”

“Farewell, Anathema,” the old witch smiled. “I am very proud of you.”

Then Agnes was gone.

*

Emily’s aunt arrived at the house the next day and would take care of her now. She promised to stay in touch and ask for help if she needed it.

Newt and Anathema bid farewell and went to meet Crowley and Aziraphale at the hotel. Anathema had not given Newt his envelope yet. She would hand it over with the ones for the angel and the demon. Aziraphale had a very soothing aura and might be able to ease Newt into the idea that their life would not be completely prophecy free. And if that did not work, getting drunk was still an option.

Averting the apocalypse had been just the beginning. There were still dangers to face and battles to fight. Evil was not bested yet and probably would never be.

But Anathema was not afraid. She was strong but not afraid to lean on her friends. She was free but not alone. The future may be bright. Or not. But she was ready to face it. After all this was the first day of the rest of her life.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a kudo if you liked it and tell me your thoughts!


End file.
